


Jeeves and the One Horse Open Sleigh

by Sex_in_spats



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:06:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sex_in_spats/pseuds/Sex_in_spats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt: On the theme of wintry, how about a wild, one-horse open sleigh ride that brings the boys together in mutual fear for their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the One Horse Open Sleigh

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Mice for doing last-minute Beta work.

I have given it much thought, but I still cannot decide if the general mangling and mayhem which was very nearly visited upon the Wooster corpus frightens me more or less than what might never have happened if I hadn't been in danger. The incident took place last Christmas, and because of the particularly fruity outcome of this adventure, this document will only be read when those implicated are past the reach of the long arm of the law or the loony doctor. As it was, this Wooster is fortunate that he didn't come out of the soup carried in a pine box, this particular soup comprised of six feet of the cold, wet stuff and garnished with a homicidal maniac with a horsewhip.

Ah, I can see that I've done it again, getting the events of the story out in a hopeless jumble. This is why I got low marks in composition in Eton; I could never tell which end of the story to start from. My tutors were very clear that if you start at the beginning with Adam to set the right mood, half of your readers will have died of old age by the time you get to the action of the story while the other half will be in the market for over-ripe vegetable matter to hurl at the offending author.

On the other hand, if you start too suddenly, the readers will not be able to make head nor tail of it and will give their thoughtful criticism in the form of rotting turnips and whatnot. This is the rummy thing about tutors in composition. They are eager to tell the young student exactly what mistakes he makes but never tell him anything useful about how to avoid making them. So here I've been gibbering on about horses and snow and Christmas, doubtlessly leaving my readers without a clue as to what I am on about.

Let me marshal my facts. I suppose I should start with Jeeves, my manservant.

When Jeeves shimmered into my life, I had outgrown my youthful indiscretions with birds and beazels and was resigned to living without the tender kisses and caresses the poet Johnnies are always carrying on about. And good riddance, I thought. Tender feelings had been good for nothing but landing me neck-deep into the consommé. Besides, if I were frogmarched up the aisle, Jeeves would leave. I couldn't live without him, so that was that.

Then, late last summer, the realization that I had fallen in love with my paragon hit me in much the same way a lead pipe wielded by a hired thug smacks the detective in the onion halfway through a corking mystery. I was left sprawled out on the pavement, seeing stars and feeling like my insides had been turned into jelly. Every romantic dalliance I had in the past paled in comparison to my heart's yearning for my brilliant, fish-fed manservant. I suppose I sound a bit like young Bingo Little, a man who falls in love as often as some chaps change shirts. But I assure you that this was the one true thingummy, the red-hot spark of pash. The Wooster heart had spoken and it was Jeeves or nothing. And, if I were honest with myself, I had felt this way for a goodish span of time before being struck by this epiphany, if epiphany is the word I want.

This was dashed awkward. I couldn't very well go up to Jeeves and say, “What ho, Jeeves, you wouldn't happen to think of the young master as your specific dream-rabbit, what?” He would probably quirk his mouth in a scornful way, which is as close as Jeeves ever gets to howling with derisive laughter. Or he might draw himself up like one of those spirited beazels from Rosie M. Banks's novels when they are waylaid with ill intent by the mill owner's dastardly son and tell me, eyes flashing, that he wasn't that kind of girl—or, rather, valet. Most likely he would phone for a policeman, leaving the spilled contents of the Wooster heart on the floor for the British Law to scoop up and bung into prison for two years.

So I settled for making things as matey as possible between us within the bounds of propriety. This had begun to wear on me, and come Christmas the bloom on my cheek had faded and I was quietly mooning over my manservant like a lovesick haddock. I needed a good cheering up when a telegram arrived, nary a week before the 25th. It read:

BERTIE STOP HAVE YOU MADE PLANS FOR HOLS STOP JUST BOUGHT COUNTRY ESTATE IN SOUTH STAFFORDSHIRE AND HOSTING DC FOR CHRISTMAS STOP WOULD YOU COME STOP OP

“Jeeves!” I called, squinting at the mysterious telegram as I lit my gasper.

My man shimmered into view. “Sir?”

“I just got this rather rum telegram. Can't make head nor tails of it. Who is this OP bird, Jeeves?” A thought struck me. I had been reading a novel about an American gangster whose cronies all used code names like Lead-Handed Jack or Slippery Lenny. “You don't think this is some kind of code, do you? This OP character could be someone nicknamed Ominous Peter or somesuch.”

I forked the paper in question over to Jeeves and watched his dial carefully. To the casual e., his expression didn't change but to a devoted connoisseur of the Jeevesian dial the quirk of his lips spoke of hidden amusement. “I think it more probable that the missive came from Mr. 'Oofy' Prosser, sir. I suspect DC is shorthand for 'Drones Club.'”

“Of course!” I exclaimed, reclaiming the telegram from my man. “I heard Catsmeat saying something about Oofy finally staking out a spot in South Saffordshire, but I thought he was talking rot. I wonder what old Oofy is up to. It isn't like him to part with the ready if there are no cards or horses involved.” Oofy Prosser is loaded with enough money to buy me five times over and still have enough scratch left to buy most of Lincolnshire county, but his wallet was guarded more tightly than a celebrant on Boat Race Night. “I say, this came just in time, Jeeves.”

“Indeed sir?”

“Aunt Dahlia has been mentioning the living nativity scene in Market Snodsbury pointedly and eyeing certain nephews with a hungry gleam in her eye.”

“I see, sir.”

“Dispatch a telegram telling him to expect us the day after tomorrow or the next day, would you Jeeves? Then take the rest of the night off.”

“Very good sir. Thank you sir.”

As I settled back into my shilling shocker about the American gangsters I felt considerably bucked. Even if the sitch. in re. Jeeves remained unresolved, at least I escaped the undignified fate of being discovered during the spring thaw frozen to death offering gifts to the Christ child. I didn't have the heart to tell Jeeves that my aged A. had wanted me to play one of the three wise men, complete with purple robe and turban.

Now, I reflected, taking a thoughtful sip of my perfectly mixed B&S, I could look forward to a holiday spent among right-thinking people who shared my views on living nativity scenes. That, and in the inevitable chaos the Drones would wreak on the unsuspecting country estate, perhaps I could slip away and enjoy part of the celebrations with the handsome chap who kept the Wooster household running tighter than a naval ship and made my heart flutter every time he shimmered into a room.

* * *

I was the last guest to arrive at Oofy's country seat. While Jeeves unpacked our bags, I took a turn about the premises. The place was packed with guests like sardines in a tin and, much to my surprise, I didn't recognize most of them. I spotted Ginger, Barmy, Boko, and Archie making free with Oofy's hothouse strawberries which, as Oofy was fond of reminding us, cost over a shilling apiece this year. I changed course, however, when I caught sight of Bingo, Catsmeat, and the drinks table. I desperately needed to warm the tum with a snifter or two of Oofy's fine brandy.

“What-ho Bingo, Catsmeat,” I said, after taking a fortifying gulp or two of the needful.

“Hullo Bertie,” Bingo replied and, now that I got a good look at the fellow, he had a face as long as pulled taffy. Catsmeat didn't look much better.

“I say, is something the matter?” I finished my brandy and poured myself another.

Bingo heaved a sigh. “Bertie, I am in love!”

This was to be expected, it being Bingo. “Ah, yes, I remember. Her name is Annie—or was it Annette?—the filly at the cheese shop. How is the old girl?”

Bingo looked offended. “No, not Annette. My feelings for her were but shadows driven away by the sun of my love for Marjorie! Marjorie is the purest, most lovely girl to ever walk the earth. Don't you think so Bertie?” His expression was so soppy I was forced to order another B&S to make sure that the first two stayed put.

“If I knew who she was, I expect she would be a right enough sort of girl.”

“I want to marry her, Bertie!”

There was a time in my life when I would have protested. “Steady on, Bingo, you only just met the girl!” I would admonish, or “Best not to rush things; the course of true love never did run something-or-other, Jeeves would know,” but this Wooster was older and wiser than of yore. Instead I asked him, “Well, what's the hitch? You look less than chuffed, old thing.”

Bingo heaved another long sigh. It was a wonder his lungs hadn't given out in all the years he has spent sighing over some dratted female. “Truth is, Bertie, she has agreed to be my wife.”

“Oh. When shall I purchase the old fish slice for the happy day?”

“That's just the thing. I have not bought a ring yet.”

“Why not?”

“I haven't the money. And Marjorie has made it quite clear that it has to be an absolutely topping ring so she can show her father that I'm rolling in it, or else she'll scratch the fixture. She is a woman with such refined tastes,” he added dreamily.

She sounded like a pill of the worst kind, but that's not something one can say about an old friend's latest one true love, so I didn't. I was about to ask him something else to keep up the conversation when Catsmeat, who had listened to us chit-chat in silence, broke in. “Bingo has gambled all of the money for the ring away,” he said, “and I have lost my little all as well.”

“Eh?”

“Oofy and several of his American friends have been planning this Christmas holiday like it's a weekend in Cannes. We've played craps, blackjack, billiards, baccarat—we even bet on games of dinner roll cricket.”

“Sounds like a smashing time,” I said eagerly. I have a drop or two of sporting blood flowing through my veins, and a Christmas spent at the tables rubbing elbows with other Drones seemed just what the doctor ordered.

Catsmeat and Bingo shot me dirty looks. “It was,” Bingo replied miserably, “until I lost the money I set aside to buy the ring. I thought I could win it back and then some to buy something even more spiffing but it's all gone!”

I was moved. Even if he was a hopeless chump at times, young Bingo is a good sort and I felt surge of paternal compassion. Even as my heart bled for him, in the back of my mind I wondered whether or not this was the way Jeeves feels towards the young master all the time. Not a pleasant thought, I decided. “Your troubles are over, Bingo. I can loan you the oof for the ring, you have only to say the word.”

“Actually, Bertie, you need only lend me twenty quid. I am sure I could double my winnings. Bad luck can't follow a chap forever, what?”

So I gave Bingo and Catsmeat a little something to get them back on the road to recovery and biffed off to say hi to Oofy. In the mean time I tossed another restorative down the hatch to help me get into the sporting spirit of Christmas.

* * *

I won't say I didn't enjoy the next few days, but even I had to admit that the atmosphere was dashed odd. While there were enough Drones present to fill the hours with dinner roll cricket and other diversions, Oofy spent most of his time with a set of American chaps whom he introduced as his business associates. They almost never mingled and watched us with calculating expressions like sharks trying to determine which minnows might be the juiciest.

The other strange thing was none of the Drones seemed able to get a leg up when it came to the card tables. I often found myself backing several of my chums, and neither they nor I had any sort of luck. Of course this would not have been so unusual, except Oofy was the only one who did well for himself when he chose to join us. At first this didn't strike me as strange; after all, it is not sporting to resent a chap for his streak of good luck when one's fortune is particularly rotten. After this had gone on for a few days and the Drones looked increasingly gloomy every time they brought out their wallets, I took Oofy aside.

“Look here, Oofy, I am not a chap to complain.”

“Oh?”

“No one seems to be making any money but you. I can afford to lose fistfuls of the ready at the card tables, but some other Drones are losing their chemises and, if this goes on much longer, their trousers as well. It is a little suspicious.”

Oofy puffed at his cigar and eyed me with a guarded expression. “Are you accusing me, Bertie?”

I quaked a little when it was put that way, but a Wooster has to stand his ground. “Eh, not as such, but you do know not all of the Drones are as steeped in the oil of palm as the rest of us.”

“Dipped in oil? What do you mean?”

“You blasted well do know what I mean, Oofy. And come to think of it, why are your American friends skulking in the wings like gangsters? Why do they never come out and rub elbows with the rest of us?”

“I am not forcing them to gamble, and if they have rotten luck so much the worse for them.”

“I say, Oofy,” I cried indignantly, setting my whisky and soda down on the sideboard with a bang. “That's just not cricket!”

“What is not cricket,” he replied, blowing cigar smoke out of his mouth and nose like a very ugly and irate dragon keen on keeping his horde, “is one of my guests flinging accusations at his host after devouring more than his share of December strawberries. They cost more than a shilling this year!”

Talking to the bounder was getting me nowhere. “Good night,” I said, and I meant it to sting.

It was time I laid my grievances before a higher power.

* * *

“Jeeves!” I called as I shucked my dinner jacket.

The man shimmered into the room, intelligence shining in his eyes. “Yes, sir?”

“This is getting a bit thick.”

“Sir?”

I told him my tale of woe, finishing with my conversation with Oofy. “Well, Jeeves, that's the sitch. What do you make of it?”

As he listened his lips turned down an eighth of an inch and his eyes darkened. “Most disturbing, sir.”

“What should I do? I can't very well go around to all and sundry making accusations, and none of the other Drones appear to have noticed something is rotten in—where are things rotten, Jeeves?”

“Denmark, sir?”

“No, that doesn't seem right. Staffordshire I suppose. Anyway, things are rotten.”

“I can make inquiries in the servant's hall. If I might make the suggestion in the meantime, sir, that you abstain from making any substantial wagers.”

I shuddered. “Of course, Jeeves.” My mind was immediately put to rest, for I knew I was in the most capable of hands. I looked at him with eyes full of adoration. “You are a marvel. I don't know what I would do without you.”

Perhaps it was my imagination playing tricks, but I thought his expression softened. “I doubt, sir, that you will ever need to do so.” The stuffed frog mask made a quick return and he bowed. “Thank you, sir. Will that be all for this evening?”

I wanted to invite him to stay for a drink, but I knew he would tell me in icy tones that it would be improper. I felt the fragile Wooster heart, so tried of late, might break a little if he did, so I plastered a smile on my map and said, “No, thank you Jeeves, that will be all.”

“Very good sir.”

* * *

“I say, can I have your attention, please!” Oofy stood and dinged his fork against his glass. It was the night of Christmas Eve, and we had just polished off a toothsome dinner and not a few snootfuls of after-dinner drinks. Up until that time I had followed Jeeves's advice as best I could. My chums had continued to touch me for money to cover their bets, and I was considerably poorer than when I had arrived, but I had gotten into the swing of the festivities notwithstanding. I was full to the brim of good will towards men and quite a bit of fine brandy.

Oofy continued. “This evening,” he said to all assembled, “we have a surprise for those of us who are members of the Drones club. Outside there are sleighs and drivers ready for a jolly romp across the countryside.”

The assembled Drones cheered. We had a quarter of an hour to bung ourselves into some warm clothes and meet at the east gate. I rang for Jeeves and told him the good news as he handed me my woollen coat and gloves.

He frowned. “Does it not strike you as odd, sir, that neither Mr. Prosser nor his American friends are to accompany you on this little outing?”

“Tosh, Jeeves,” I huffed as I took my scarf from his hands. I had not been in a sleigh since I was in shortpants, and was looking forward to the romp with no little excitement. “That is to say, flapdoodle.”

“As you say, sir.”

“Now, Jeeves, my hat.”

“Sir?”

“Do not say 'sir' in such a soupy voice, Jeeves. You know which hat I mean. It is sitting on the bedside table. Fetch it hither.” The chapeau in question was a gift from Barmy. It was a red hat with white trim, something much like the one worn by Saint Nicholas in a picture I saw in the seasonal edition of Milady's Boudoir.

“I am sure that the hat was intended for decoration and is not meant to be worn, sir.”

“Jeeves, we are not going to argue about that hat.” I fetched the thing myself and pulled it onto my head. “Toodle-pip.”

I legged it out of there before he could cast any more asper-whatsits on my very festive headgear. A man must never be a slave to his valet, and it was getting dashed difficult to say no to him lately.

* * *

When I reached the east gate, I found the sleighs had all been prepared, and Drones were piling into them two at a time. Each sleigh had a seat for the driver, with a cosy little spot for two behind him.

“I say, Bertie, what a hat!” Ginger waved me to his side. “There is room in my sleigh, if you want to jump in. Catsmeat was supposed to come in my sleigh but he had a bit too much to drink at dinner and is worried about being jostled.”

"Or,” interjected Bingo, who had been standing a little off to the side, “you could come with me. Barmy has a paralysing fear of sleigh rides. Says he hit his head in a sledding accident as a child.”

The Wooster brain slipped into high gear. That is to say, I thought of Jeeves. Specifically, I thought of Jeeves and I sitting side by side on a one horse open s., traversing the moonlit fields under the winter sky, the snow gently falling as we huddled closer together for warmth. Taking one's beloved through the rose gardens at the gloaming was all well and good, I thought, but a romantic sleigh ride was the real tabasco for hearts that yearn.

“Ehm, no, that's all right. Bingo wanted to talk to you about Minnie.”

“Marjorie!” Bingo corrected. He took the bait and swung himself into the sleigh next to Ginger. “You simply must meet her, Ginger, she is a tender goddess. What hair, what eyes, what teeth . . .”

Feeling very pleased with myself, I told the driver to wait a tic, then ran back inside and rang for Jeeves.

“You are going to miss the sleigh ride, sir,” he said as soon as he materialized.

“No, Jeeves, bung yourself into your warmest togs and come out. I want you to ride with me.”

The eyebrow raised a quarter of an inch. “That would not be proper, sir.”

My face fell six storeys and splattered on the pavement below. “Look, Jeeves, I know this wounds the feudal spirit, but . . .” I trailed off, since I realized I did not know how to finish that sentence without saying too much.

“If you will excuse me, sir, I think you misunderstand. I would very much enjoy accompanying you, but,” he added, raising his eyes pointedly to my forehead, “I will under no circumstances be seen with you in the presence of that thing.”

That thing, of course, was the hat which sat gaily atop the Wooster noggin. I would have stood my ground, but if it was a choice between having Jeeves with me, or enduring a cold sleigh ride with just my natty headgear for company, well, there was no choice really. I sighed and chucked the thing. He quirked his lips. “Let me fetch my coat from the servant's quarters and I will meet you outside, sir.”

* * *

It was a tight fit in the sleigh but that, of course, suited me to a tee. The driver cracked the whip and, with a merry peal of bells, we were moving out into the snowy fields. The lights of Shropshire Hall disappeared behind us, but the moon and the snow made everything as bright as day. We chatted of this and that over the sound of the sleigh bells, and as the ride went on Jeeves came as close to relaxing as I had ever seen him. He leaned back and his face looked calm, even happy. As I amused him with the story of the time when Angela and I tricked young Bonzo into swimming in the punch bowl I found myself distracted by the feeling of his body nestled so close to my own. The moonlight made him look like an American film star, and when I finished my story he very nearly smiled.

We fell into a companionable silence while I fished in my coat pocket for my gaspers. I handed Jeeves one and took the other. He wordlessly lit both us both at the same time, which brought our heads so close together I found myself wishing the cigarettes would never catch. They did, of course, and after a moment we pulled away.

The sleigh picked up speed as we smoked in companionable silence. After we'd chucked the stubs out into the passing landscape, we settled back, watching the snowy fields and gazing at the moon and stars.

Then I felt something queer. It was almost as if Jeeves' leg were not merely sitting there, minding its own business, but was gently pressing against mine. I glanced at his face but his serene expression betrayed no sign of what was happening belowdecks. I wondered if I had imagined it. Tentatively, I pressed back a bit, and slid my hand under the blanket and rested it on my thigh, fanning my fingers out until the very edge of my pinky brushed against his leg. I watched his expression for news of my fate. If any displeasure coloured the Jeevesian dial, I could brush it off as a careless accident.

Jeeves stiffened, then turned to look at me, his expression a careful blank. He studied my face in a searching sort of way, before both corners of his perfect mouth turned up and he smiled. I wouldn't need more than three fingers to count the number of times I had seen him do more than twitch his lips or raise his eyebrows. Now I knew beyond a shadow of d. that Jeeves smiling was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. His hand slid under the blankets and covered my own, lacing his fingers through mine. I couldn't help the happy grin which split my map in two, and my heart soared.

As it so happens, I was mistaken about my heart soaring. In fact, the entire sleigh, complete with the Wooster anatomy, Jeeves, and the sleigh driver, were in the air. I gave a manly yelp and grabbed onto Jeeves's arm, as we were airborne for a few horrifying seconds before we landed with a sickening crunch. The sleigh was travelling much faster than I remembered, but I had been more preoccupied with my manservant than the pace of the sleigh. In fact, the rate at which we were travelling would be described by my American friends as breakneck speed. We hurtled over the snowy landscape, and the hunched, sinister figure of the driver cracked the whip like billy-o. Jeeves and I, still clinging together like two limpets, stared at one another in alarm.

Jeeves extricated himself from my arms and rose partially out of his seat to tap the driver on the shoulder. “For God's sake,” he shouted over the pounding hooves and ringing bells, “slow down!”

The driver turned and squinted back at us as if only now aware of our presence. “Reg?”

Jeeves' eyes widened in shock. “Brinkley!”

Those familiar with my other adventures will remember Brinkley as the blighter who had entered my employ during that dark period when Jeeves and I had parted brass rags and he had gone to work for Chuffy. Now that the driver turned, I recognized Brinkley and saw that he held a flask in his left hand. He took a swig, and the reins slackened.

Suddenly the sleigh lurched and it was only my quick thinking which saved Jeeves from being hurled into the abyss.

“If that is you, Reg, then is that . . .” Heedless of the direction in which we were careening, Brinkley's eyes fixed on me and his face furrowed with murderous intent. “Wooster!” Letting the reins go entirely, he reached for his whip and in a flash was leaning over the back of his seat, brandishing it. “This time,” he slurred, “I will finish what I started.”

He had raised his arm to strike me when Jeeves hurled himself at Brinkley, wrestling with him for the whip with one hand while the other clung to the seat for balance. In two blinks, Jeeves had bunged himself into the front of the sleigh and they were going at it like two angry bears.

I couldn't very well leave the valet I loved to face a homicidal maniac alone, so I joined the fray, pulling Brinkley off my man and hurling myself into the seat to join them.

Brinkley turned to me in a rage. “I'll kill you, Wooster!”

“Jeeves!” I squeaked as I grappled with Brinkley. “Get the reins to slow this bally thing down!”

Stalwart fellow that he was, Jeeves was already easing the horse from its frantic gallop to a stop, but unfortunately it was rather crowded in the front of the sleigh and I was thrown off balance. Seizing his opportunity, Brinkley struck me across the face with the hand that held the whip and Bertram was down for the count. I fell off the now motionless sleigh and was thrown in the snow rather close to the horse. Startled, the bob-tailed beast gave a terrific whinny and reared up on its hind legs.

The Wooster frame may not be much for wrestling inebriated sleigh drivers, but years of pinching things for my Aunt Dahlia and running from the law had given me finely honed reflexes. I rolled out of the way and narrowly escaped having a horseshoe shaped pattern imprinted on my lemon. If Jeeves hated horseshoes on ties, I thought a little deliriously, as a spray of snow tossed up by the frantic animal covered me in a thick coating of the white stuff, he would certainly not approve of a face with a horseshoe stamped on it.

A little stunned from my fall, I heard Jeeves shout as from a great distance and within moments he had leaped out of the sleigh and rushed to my side. “Sir,” he cried, his hands gingerly checking my head and person for equine damage, “sir, are you hurt?” If Jeeves were the kind of bird to wring his hands and cry a frightened tear he would have done it. As it is his eyes were wide and his eyebrows furrowed in manly concern.

I sat up slowly, reaching my hand behind my head to where a good-sized goose egg was starting to form. “Ow, Jeeves,” I moaned, rubbing the spot gingerly. “I'm fine, but I hit my head.”

A look of intense relief passed over his handsome features and he held my face between his hands before bringing his lips to mine and kissing me with such gentle tenderness I thought I would melt. I returned the kiss with gusto, winding my arms around his neck. He must have been very cold, as I felt him shake a little in my arms. Suddenly, I remembered where we were and, more specifically, what had just happened. I broke the kiss and leaped to my feet. “Brinkley-”

“Brinkley,” Jeeves said coldly, rising to his feet and brushing the snow off my jacket, “is unconscious.”

“Unconscious, Jeeves?”

“Yes sir.”

I peered over to see Brinkley's prone form draped over the front seat of the sleigh. “I say, Jeeves, you didn't accidentally kill him, did you?” My fears leaped from being bunged in the chokey for gross indecency to watching the man I loved be hanged for murder, with self being sentenced to life as an accessory.

“No, though it would have been no more than he deserved, sir. I merely struck him a blow to the side of his head, and the quantities of strong spirits I suspect he has imbibed did the rest.” As if on cue, a loud snore broke through from Brinkley's corner. We stood for a moment staring at one another.

“Well, Jeeves,” I said slowly, “I suppose we should head back to the manor.”

“I don't think that we need to do that, sir.”

“What about Brinkley?”

Without a word, Jeeves leaped into the sleigh, deposited Brinkley in the back seat and covered him with a blanket. “If he awakens, a contingency I think highly unlikely, he will be disoriented and I doubt he will pose much of a threat.” He helped me into the front seat of the sleigh and took the reins in one hand, holding my hand in the other. As we slowly drove out into the darkness, snow soft as eiderdown began to fall and I stole a second kiss.

* * *

Since all available meadows were covered with a layer of snow, I paced the carpet in my room with a heavy tread. I glanced at my watch and my heart sank. What the deuce was he? I had retired half an hour ago to my boudoir, and Jeeves had politely excused himself from me to take care of some small matter that he said needed attending. I could not imagine what small matter this could have been, but I have often said that Jeeves moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.

So I waited patiently for ten minutes before doubts began to settle in. After another ten minutes it was clear that they wouldn't be going away and were likely to build a summer home in the Wooster bean.

The sleigh ride had been decidedly matey and we had not seen fit to drive back to the manor until three in the ack emma. There had been much kissing, pressing of hands and looks of love exchanged between the two of us, but very little in the way of words. I wondered if he had gotten back and decided he had made a terrible mistake after the excitement of the thing had passed. Maybe on second thought he couldn't endure becoming entangled with a mentally negligible chump who never reads an improving book except under duress. I've often said Jeeves could be Prime Minister, but what I have never put to writing before is that he could have any bird or beazel he fancied. Perhaps he was waiting in the hall trying to think of how to break it gently to the young master that his heart already belonged to someone else.

Come to think of it, his behaviour had been very odd when we got in. All the guests were still awake so we had a bit of a job explaining why we had returned so late and why our driver was unconscious in the back of the sleigh. I noticed that, while the Drones seemed generally overjoyed to see me, as soon as we disembarked Oofy and his American friends huddled in the corner. They growled and glared at each other, and waved little stubs of paper in a menacing fashion. I would not have taken any notice had Jeeves not disappeared into the parlour with one or two of the thugs after excusing himself from my presence.

I was five minutes from ringing for Jeeves to demand an explanation when a cough like a gently bleating sheep on a hillside broke my unpleasant reverie.

I whirled around and found him standing there, looking so brainy and handsome that if I were a lesser man I would have thrown myself into the paragon's arms on the spot. But we Woosters are not lesser men, and the doubts which had settled in were not dispelled so easily. “Jeeves!” I exclaimed.

“Sir.”

“Where were you?”

“I confess, sir, I was not entirely forthcoming concerning the sleigh ride.”

I did not like the sound of that one bit, but I screwed my courage to the s. p. and resolved to remain calm when the blow came. But, instead of the expected dashing of the Wooster hopes, he glided over to me and handed me a wad of cash. I gaped at him.

“At your request I made enquiries concerning the matter of Mr. Prosser and his American compatriots. As you had suspected, sir, many of the games in which you and your friends engaged were rigged.”

“I say!”

“Indeed, sir. I also discovered that the Americans were placing bets of considerable sums on the behaviour of the Drones throughout the week, and that the piece de resistance was to be the sleigh ride. The drivers had been instructed to take their charges in any direction they chose and not to turn back until the passengers specifically requested that they do so. Bets were placed on which Drone would be the last to return in the given circumstances.”

“I say!”

“That is correct, sir. I deduced that Mr. Prosser's crooked practices extended to the bets he placed with his wealthy American friends and that this was likely to have bred no little ill feeling toward him. I made the acquaintance of two American gentlemen and tipped them off concerning Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps's fear of sledding and suggested that the carriage I had assumed you and Mr. Little would occupy would be the last to return. Since Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps was thought to be the sure thing, they stood to win a great deal of money from Mr. Prosser. In exchange, I had them place a modest bet on my behalf. I imagine it is more than adequate to cover the losses you and your friends sustained.”

“Jeeves,” I interrupted in a voice which was not quite perfectly steady, “do you mean to say that the whole bit with staying out late in the sleigh was a—what is that word which sounds like rouge but means scheme of some sort?”

“Ruse, sir?”

“Yes! Are you saying that the sleigh ride was a ruse to guarantee your bet, Jeeves?”

I didn't even notice that Jeeves had spanned the distance between the two of us, as I was staring down at the tips of my shoes. If I looked at him, I was afraid I would shed an unmanly tear and the stiff upper lip would tremble a bit.

He guided my chin up. “Sir—Bertram—look at me.”

I stared at him, shocked. I had never heard my Christian name on the his lips except sandwiched between 'Mister' and 'Wooster.'

“I have never felt such fear as when I saw you fall under the horse. If you had not been spared,” and here his voice took on a certain thingness which sent tingles down my spine, “I do not doubt that I would have killed Brinkley.”

I swallowed. Then, not knowing quite what else to do, I swallowed again, then licked my lips.

“Do you understand, Bertram?” His hands moved from my chin to frame my face in much the same way he had done when we first kissed in the snow.

For all of my aunts complaining about my tendency to blither on when I am nervous, in that moment I could think of nothing to say. So I said in a voice a bit higher than usual, “Reginald, do you ever think about love?”

Jeeves looked puzzled for a moment before his face melted into a smile and I heard a sort of low sound, which I realized after a few moments was laughter. The sight of his eyes crinkling and his lips—both of them, mind you—turned up into a smile proved too much. I lunged forward and kissed him like the dickens.

He held me close and gave back with a fervour which left me breathless and turned my pins into goo. So I backed up, lips still locked with his, tugging at his tie and collar, until I felt the bed against the back of my legs, and tumbled backwards.

As soon as we parted he stepped back and walked away. The protest died in my throat when I saw him lock the door and turn to me as he divested—if divested is the word I want—himself of tie, collar, braces, shirt and vest.

Jeeves in his valeting togs is a sight to behold, but every inch of skin he bared showed features which made me salivate like MacIntosh presented with a bone. His shoulders were wide and strong as that Atlas chappie, and the thick, dark hairs covering his broad chest begged for my fingers to run through them. I gave him my best come hither look, which earned me another rare laugh before he pounced on me and began undoing my tie and collar. I took the opportunity to run my hands over his smooth, strong back, and nibble at that delightful bit of skin between his ear and jaw.

“You know,” I said between burning kisses and little gasps, as Jeeves finally uncovered Wooster skin, “I am quite smitten with you, old thing.”

"One half of me is yours, the other half yours, my own,” he whispered in my ear, as his hands glided down my shoulders to slide me out of braces and shirt, “mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, and so all—mmmph.”

Jeeves, of course, would never have said “mmph” without the aid of the Wooster tongue making a bold entry into his mouth. Once I had plundered his depths and allowed his tongue to enjoy a bit of its own exploration, I broke the kiss and told him in no uncertain terms that the poet Burns could go hang and there were other more useful things to be doing with mouths and tongues at the mo.

“Actually sir,” Jeeves panted, “that was the Swan of Avon.”

“Please, please no sir-ing,” I gasped back, cupping him through his trousers. “You are not to 'sir' me, Reginald, unless we have company.” I fumbled at his flies before my hand was swatted away and Jeeves' took over the task himself. I followed suit, and soon we both sat on the bed, facing one another in the altogether.

I couldn't decide what part of Jeeves I wanted to touch first. I ran my fingers slowly down his jaw, down his chest and along his thighs until he lost patience and pushed me gently on my back, covering me with his body like a blanket. I groaned when I felt how hard he was and showed my appreciation by wrapping my pins around him and grinding us together. He braced himself on one arm and I felt his warm hand drift down my chest before grasping me and running his thumb over the head of my cock, which was slick and weeping. It felt absolutely topping, and I writhed beneath him.

But I had ideas of my own. The Wooster frame may be slight, but it is agile. I flipped him on his back, and his look of surprise melted into one of pure pleasure as I ran my mouth over the peak of one nipple, licking and biting. I kissed his chest and he grasped my arms as I felt his lungs heaving like bellows under my tongue.

“Please, please,” I groaned, as I moved further south and felt his fingers wind gently in my hair. “Please, let me do this for you, Reginald. Please.”

“Anything,” he breathed back, “anything you like, Bertram.”

I needed no further invitation. Settling myself between his thighs, I took one last look at his body before mouthing the tip of him, flicking my tongue in his slit to taste him before swallowing him down as far as I could. I relished the feeling of him in my mouth for a good few seconds before bobbing back up, feeling his grip on my head tightening, and savouring the noises of pleasure he made as I plunged him into my throat again. I slipped my hands underneath his body as he slid in and out of my mouth, and ran my finger between his cheeks, teasing the little puckered hole there before cupping his bollocks in my palm. He reached for my hand and brought it up to his mouth. He kissed the palm then my fingers before sucking them down. He laved them with his tongue and I imitated his motions down below as best I could.

Then he guided my hand back down his body and pressed my slick fingers to his entrance. Humming around his cock I slowly worked a finger into him as far as it would go. Once his body had relaxed, I gave it a friendly wiggle, tapping that spot with my fingertip over and over.

His hips bucked like a stallion and he tugged my hair as he flooded my mouth. I swallowed eagerly, until he pulled my head away and my finger slipped out of his body. In spite of the chill, his skin was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. His lips were parted deliciously and I swooped in to kiss him. He devoured my mouth before breaking the kiss and rolling over on all fours, pulling me on top of him. He reached between his thighs and gave my member a few tugs before guiding me into the space between them just below his softening cock.

“I am afraid,” he breathed in a voice so low and sensual it was a miracle I didn't succumb to la petite whatsit that very moment, “I do not have oil on my person, and so I cannot let you take what I am so eager to give you. But,” he added as he clamped his thighs around my burning erection, “I want to feel you come all over my skin.”

“Jee—er, Reginald,” I moaned, as I draped myself over his back and kissed his neck, “you? Unprepared? This must be a day for the record books, what?”

He gave another breathless laugh as I thrust between his thighs, lost in a dizzying haze of pleasure. I grasped his chest for dear life and, supporting us on one hand, he held onto my arm with the other as I rutted against him with increasingly desperate passion.

Between the absolutely topping feeling of his body in my arms, his taste in his mouth and his thighs clenched around my cock it couldn't last long. A burst of pleasure surged through my body and I moaned into his neck as I spent myself between his thighs. We sank down onto the bed in a sticky, sated heap and lay there in silence for a few long moments before I rolled off him.

“If I might make a suggestion,” he said slyly, running his finger over my chest in lazy circles, “if we leave a little after breakfast, there is the possibility that we could return to the metropolis in time for dinner.”

“Rather,” I agreed. “I've had enough of Oofy and the Drones for one holiday. Best quit while we're ahead, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“And Reginald?”

“Yes?”

“Merry Christmas, old thing.”


End file.
